The Saving Grace of Antiquity
by twisted-sheets
Summary: Sherlock Holmes AU where England was the world’s foremost independent consulting detective, Canada was his long-suffering chronicler and companion, and America is a dedicated Scotland Yard inspector. And France is...France. Human names used.


**Title:** _**The Saving Grace of Antiquity**_

**Disclaimer:** So, er. Yeah. Hetalia isn't mine. And the world of Sherlock Holmes and Dr. John H. Watson, while in the public domain, is not mine either, but is the brilliant creation of Sir _Arthur_ Conan Doyle. I'm merely er, _butchering_ it for my entertainment.

**Pairing: **Arthur × Alfred; hints of Francis × Matthew

**Rating:** PG-13

**Author's notes:** Multipart fic written for the usxuk ficathon (the things I do for _loooooove_™). Crap. Yes. Hetalia set in Victorian England-esque world. Please do not take this too seriously. That I am on crack (or perhaps, like Mr. Holmes, on a 7 percent solution of cocaine) does not even describe the insanity that this is. Historical inaccuracies may abound, especially in use of language. Please feel free to bludgeon me over that.

Also, a shout-out to the Fic Fairy, who is Made of Awesome and sort of inspired me to write. *grins*

**Warning:** The title has no connection with the fic. At all. Really. And this is my very first public Hetalia fic. *ducks rotten vegetables* No beta too.

**I.**

Three years ago, Arthur Kirkland, the world's _only_ independent consulting detective, visited "the undiscovered country from whose _bourne no traveller_ returns."

And yet, Matthew observes as he sets foot for the first time in nearly three years into the sitting room of the flat he had once lived in with the detective, everything is still arranged as it was. The portrait of Queen still adorns the wall, as well as the bullet-pocks that form the initials V.R. (a rather ostentatious display of patriotism and excellent drunken marksmanship, Matthew had always thought), letters still stuck to the mantelpiece with a jackknife. The violin and its case, however, no longer leaned against Arthur's bookshelves; Francis must have taken it or placed it elsewhere for safekeeping. Arthur loved that violin dearly, a Stradivarius he had bought from a man who had not known its true worth.

Arthur's desk is still in its neat state, papers and clippings stacked tidily on one side, weighted down by the bust of Napoleon he had gotten as a souvenir of sorts from a case (this Napoleon bust, however, unlike those in the case, has the distinguishing feature of a moustache painted over its mouth), pens and quills arranged by the virtue of their strokes, inks by their shade and colour.

Matthew knows without looking that should he open the left drawer, he will find the silver flask of brandy Arthur doesn't know Matthew knows he's hiding inside, the one engraved with Arthur's family arms and motto (_non_ _sufficit Orbis_), the one Arthur was so fond of describing as "the only inheritance I received from my family, save for the art in my blood and my brows," spoken in such a queer manner that Matthew still does not know — and will never know — if Arthur refers to the flask itself, or something else entirely.

"_God_," Matthew breathes out when he reaches out to touch the pipe rack near the settee, his voice echoing faintly within the room. "Francis." Matthew inhales deeply the heavy, cold air, empty of the scents of tobacco, of tea, of sulphur, and, most achingly all, of Arthur, the one single presence that made this Matthew's home for so long. "Have you gone utterly mad?"

He knew Francis had plans to restore the flat after the fire; a whim, he had said. He had the means, after all. And, he had added in a half-jest, Arthur would haunt him should he ever leave his dwellings in such a despicable state. But Matthew did not realize his restorations would be as faithful or as detailed as this.

It was as if the fire that had burned here three years ago had never happened, as if the occupant would come back at any moment — that Arthur would burst out of his bedroom, top hat on one hand and walking stick on the other, eyes sharp and bright, mouth wide with the manic smile he has when the thrill of the chase is upon him.

"Come, Matthew!" he would say, voice warm and rich and filled with vigour. "I have sent the boy for a four-wheeler, now take your coat and your hat and your note-pad and then we will be. On. Our. Way! Hah!" And then he all but dashes to the door, leaping over the settee in a single bound.

Matthew's lips twitches to a bitter smile at the memory and shook his head, trying to ignore the sudden, painful twist in his heart. Perhaps he should not be too quick to judge Francis's sanity. Perhaps this was his way of coping with the loss of Arthur. Matthew coped by immersing himself deep in his medical studies and his work and moving as far away from this flat as practicality would allow; staying in this memory-haunted place would have driven him to madness, if not the unspeakable. Meanwhile, Alfred...had other ways with dealing with Arthur's death.

_How do you live_, Francis once asked him not long ago in one of his frequent visits, _when the centre of your world is gone?_

"Sorry to have kept you waiting."

Matthew barely suppressed a start of surprise at the sound of his twin's voice. His heart gives another painful twist, one he could not ignore, at the sight him. _Alfred_. He had not seen his twin in months, but seemed like every time their paths crossed, the Alfred he knew is swallowed further into the grim, gaunt man that has taken his place.

"Hello, Matt." Alfred smiles at him, one that does not reach his eyes. No longer the sparkling sky-blue they were three years ago, they are a stormy blue-grey, as sombre as the colour of his clothes, all in the hues of mourning. "It's been a while." He sits on the settee, on the same spot he used to whenever he visited him and Arthur.

Matthew nods and finds himself instinctively sitting on the other chair beside the settee, his usual place as well. Arthur would sit on the basket chair across them, a glass of brandy in one hand, or playing his Stradivarius. If he was in a good mood, Arthur would talk expansively on diverse subjects; if he was not, he would sulk until Alfred would make some remark that annoyed him and then they would argue well into the night.

"Francis was really serious about restoring the place, huh. It's the first time I've been here," Alfred says. He is looking at the basket chair as well, then to the door that led to Arthur's bedroom, a faint smile on his face. "It's as if he'd just step out his room any minute now and start ordering us around."

"Yes." Matthew clears his throat and gets down to business. As he valued his sanity, he does not want to stay here any longer than he should. "You said in your telegram there was something you wished to speak with me in person." _Though why you wished us to meet _here _is beyond my understanding_.

"Ah, yes." To Matthew surprise, America smiles, this time with one eerily similar to that of Arthur when he was on a particularly exciting case. His stomach churns at the sight, body going cold with sudden dread. "We've found _her_."

Matthew makes the connection instantly. There is only one _her_ that would bring such an expression on his twin's face. Matthew narrows his own eyes, feels his gut clench tight. He straightens and leans over to America. "Where is _she_?"

"In London, but the bitch has been hiding." Had it been any other woman, Matthew would have chided his brother for such disrespectful words, but not for her. _Never_ for her. "We've been having a difficult time precisely locating her, but we've come up with a plan to lure her out."

Matthew frowns at that. Plans were rarely Alfred's strength. More often than not, it ends up backfiring against him, or worsening the situation. "And what is this plan of yours?" he asks cautiously.

Alfred chuckles at his tone. "Don't worry, Matt. I've thought this through." He smirks when Matthew continues to give him a sceptical look. "We are going to make her think."

"Think what?"

"That Arthur Kirkland has come back from the dead."

---

"She is in London."

"I know. I deduced that days ago. I see you are still going through that ridiculous plan of yours."

"_Mais oui_. It is a _brilliant_ plan; it will be a shame to waste it."

"Only you could think of something so outrageous."

"Speak for yourself, _mon petit frère_. I seem to recall certain more flamboyant ploys from you. Besides, you _did_ contribute to this plan. I must say the bust was a touch of genius."

"Thank you."

"When will you be leaving for London, then? I assume you shall be assisting them, one way or another."

"So eager to get rid of me, are you? No, you don't need to answer, I know very well what you think."

"You cannot run away forever. You are only prolonging the inevitable."

"Am I? Hah, I suppose now is as good a time as any. Stop making that face, you bastard. I'll be leaving tomorrow morning for London."

"And then?"

"And then, we shall see. We shall see."

**TBC **

**Notes (or DEAR GOD, the NOTES): **

I'm taking stuff not just from canon (that is, the stories written by ACD), but also from the Sherlock Holmes Granada series and the BBC Radio plays by Bert Coules.

The title is from a line in the "The Adventure of the Musgrave Ritual" from _The Memoirs of Sherlock Holmes_: "It is rather an absurd business, this ritual of ours. But it has at least the saving grace of antiquity to excuse it."

_Non sufficit Orbis_ is the family motto of another very well-known fictional British character. ;)

The layout of 221B is based on this print: .?nclick_check=1, although a bit modified.

Brett Jeremy's portrayal of Holmes is to blame for the sofa jumping. XD

Also, did you know a violin is to be made from ACD's favourite tree? /news/article/Violin-to-be-made-from-Sherlock-Holmes-tree/5

I'm sorry. I'm SO sorry. *runs and hides*


End file.
